MATES.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 197, 24 September 1914, Page 2

MATES.

Bay after day Martin brooded over Lis set purpose. Never in all the weeks of companionship and hardship shared With Kent had "he wavered from it, there was but one thought behind his small twinkling eyes, and it was for vengeance—there .was only one price eouhl wipe but his debt He watched Kent all the time with that disconcerting gaze of his that to the casual observer appeared genial, and was really as cold as Antarctic -'ice. ) '

The other man was quite unconscious. Sometimes he thought" that Martin seemed a bit qiieer, and was quieter than he used to be, but he supposed he was worried. In the face of the drought that everyone was predicting a man might look serious, and Martin had a wife to think of:now. He thanked his stars that, at least, if he lost everything no one was hurt but himself, so 6e'whistled gaily as he-rode along, and Martin set his teeth a. little grimly at the sound, and .onoe "again jealousy twisted his mind into all kinds of grim; explanations of the other's? attitude. Bid he flaunt his triumph thus in his face, he asked himself, and kept his eyes fixed on him with a kind of steady, snake-like-watchfulness that sometimes even careless Kent found rather disconcerting. He rather wished he'd sent down a man with the cattle instead of going himself, only Martin had seemed ad set on his coming, and he thought it would be rather rotten letting the poor ♦hap have the biggest burden of the responsibility—besides, men were hard to get. , They had missed the usual-annual scanty toll of inches of rain in the back «ountry, and everyone knew things were going to be hard. Martin had decided, to lighten the stocking of his run, and get a mob of cattle down to the eoast before the stock. routes were c105ed..... ,Kent .had. decided to join. Mm, and he had seized upon the idea eagerly, almost begging Kent to come along hims.elfj because he knew the roads, as well as any man. \ "It's no use sending 'em down with drovers," Martin had declared. "For one "thing, we, can't get 'em, and an? ether, they won't know to slip 'em along the way we do. We can pretty well guess how the wells .'ll stand, be : sides there's not much doing on" the places now." So they went. It had been a hard trip. There were long stages between the wells, when it was get through the best way you could, and 1 the Lord help you if you could not make it. .-Where the, water was fairjy plentiful they rested, but they dared »ot wait long, because of the return. Martin had been almost gay going down, for had generalled the trip, and they had reached the coast in fair trim, not losing many head on the way, all things considered. The price had been fair, and they had started off .QJV the long trip back as .soon is the deal was through; there was no time to waste with the hottest part of the summer still to come. It was after; leaving thejßQastal.tpwn f ;where i i;he cat-T tie-boats were loading, that the change came over Martin. Then r he became anether man, brooding for.hours togetlieri and always watching. K*erit decided he was anything but an enlivening mate,

and decided he would not take the road [with him again. He wondered if Martin had spells like this at home, and began to feel-a sympathetic kinship with the little town girl Martin had met, and married, on one of his trips to the coast, and Avho hated the bush so frankly. She was a little butterfly thing, made. f,or pleasure and lightsome ways; what had made her marry Martin had always perplexed Kent. He did not know that she had come .up as governess to the publican's daughter, and had been glad of anything that took her away from it. She had not many qualifications, and was one of seven gii'ls in a family that found it just as much as they could do to.keep things going at-all, and she knew there was no room for her at home. Martin had to her; he was quiet and more like the men she had known, save that he was rather bushy in his ways; so she married him. What she did not take into consideration was the fact that life in a rough-and-ready shanty, away in impossible country lnyidreds and hundreds of miles from the coast, has not many of the elements of romance. In a week she was tired of it, in a month she would gladly have scrubbed floors and done any'sort of work just to ,be in town again, and see houses and* lights, and hear what was going on in the world outside. The great stretches of. sand and spinifex were her prison, and.hemmed her in as carefully as though she were in Siberia. Martin was kind to her; he had fallen .in love with her as deeply as if was his nature to do with anyone, but his work had to come first, and he expected her to do her share. She longed to die; but she was- young and healthy, and that consolation was denied her; there was nothing for her but to do as many women have done, and.make the best, of things. Kent lived further away again, on an ant-hill as he ealled it. He and Martin and their few hands seemed to have that far corner of the world to themselves. Sometimes men passed by, bringing big mobs of cattle overland, occasionally someone from west o' sunset came by, but otherwise Kent was the only man she saw. He was always nice to women. He treated them with a kind of boyish camaraderie they found irresistible, and he was sorry for this girl, who seemed as lonely as a bandicoot. Heaven knew she had not muchpf a time. Perhaps he sympathised with her more than was wise, but- it sprang from a genuinely kind heart. She was a woman, and probably a shade of tenderness crept into his manner when he talked to her. These things were part of him, and his charm —they meant no more than the bird in the air, but she did not know this, neither did Martin, and that was where the trouble Brewed.

: Martin noticed the difference in her when Kent came along. She adopted the half-coy, rather spoilt-baby, way that she had long ago given up with him; she troubled to do her hair in the most becoming way, and Martin noticed " all these things and slowly a bitter hatred of the other man crept over him. He had always been jealous—jealous of his horses, his dogs, all his possessions. It hail been with him as a Small boy, and had grown stronger "with the years. .Sometimes he was out when Kent "came, and again he brooded over this, and decided it was all arranged by him' on purpose. He did' not stop to consider that it would have been a very difficult matter for Kent to guess the,'psychological moment he was away' over eighty miles of sand. He would bide his time,

he decided, then he would strike. Kent would find he was made of sterner stuff than he imagined—he did not consider the woman; she was his, merely a pawn in the game. ..•'■" She had riot seemed at all heartbroken when he had told her it was necessary for him to go in with the cattle. She had assured him she would not be at-all nervous with old Jack, the boundary rider- —though the boundaries were not very strict —and his wife there; "besides," she had laughed, "there's nothing to be nervous of here!" When he told her Kent was going too she had coloured violently, and he again drew his own deductions. Old Jack did not find him a good man to work with that day. The day arranged for the start —when Kent and his mob had come up to join them —he had gone quietly into the kitchen to get some fat for the hobbles; then he had heard a woman crying, and had stopped to listen, his lips drawn back in a snarling smile. "I wish I were going with you; I can't bear it," he had heffrd her say; and Kent's '' My dear little woman, so do I; you must—I—." 1 —." Then Jack had come along to ask him something: " j It was all plain to'him.' He did not realise that, seeing the preparations for the start, a .wild longing, for the -old familiar town ways had swept oyer the woman, a burning nostalgia that was almost pain, she felt she could not stay in that far-away lonely place, where the news of the outside world only penetrated to now and then, when someone passed by, and the mails came about every six months. And Kent was honestly upset about her staying. He hated to see anyone unhappy fpr the moment; it might not go very deep, but at the time he would do anything to help anyone he came across who was in trouble. He thought it was dashed haftl lines on the poor little woman, and wished she could come along; then, when they started, and the cattle gave a good deal of trouble, he forgot all about her, for all their time and most of their thoughts were kept occupied by the mob.

Only Martin never forgot, and day by day his purpose: became more fixed until his mind became so obsessed with jealous hate and his plans that he had : little thought for anything. Often, when Kent spoke to him, he-would have to ask the question oiice or twice before Martin grasped it, and then he would be answered with a laugh; < Decidedly he was not a comfortable companion. It was weary going the way back. The horses were leg-weary and in poor condition. Martin had sold one of his, and bought a mare from a man who' had come up the coast, and was selling his plant. She was in good condition, and he rejoiced over his bargain, but some days out she fell sick and could not go fast, and that delayed them, and every day the water was growing less. When they left the stock route each man knew it was going to be a hard pull, for they had been longer on the way than they expected, and at that time of the year days were precious. Water is more than gold and precious stones in the dry belts, more than anything in the world —it is life itsfelf. •' "''\ ■ While Kent rode beside" liimy whistling cheerfully, or trying ( to -make Martin talk, the man's thoughts' were- always; busy planning. Only one of' them would go back, and it would- not be Kent. He did not know why he hesitated, partly because/it was rather Jlonely crossing by oneself, and nothing' must happen until they got into the country of the

sandhills. While Kent slept soundly at nights, Martin lay awake and thought over his plans; thought until he was no longer sane on the subject; the man's whole nature seemed to be -warped; Lying there under the great arching star-splashed sky, with the unbroken dark sweep, of the land stretching away on all sides to, the horizon's rim, and the horses seeking about for something to eat, he wondered how he,would do it. • ' He would lie and watch the sleeping man and think how easy it would be to choke the life out of him, that there would be no witness but the stars, and it would be so easy-to"make up a tale that would carry conviction; he might have died of dengue, or had a bad touch ; of'the sun, and Martin had stayed with him until he was dead. By the time anyone went to investigate there would be little fear of the manner of-his death showing —only he had better not shoot: bullets had a nasty little trick-jof giving a man away. Sometimes he thought of taking the horses and pushing on. Kent was a sound sleeper, and if he took the water-bags, there was little chance of him getting to the water. He thought, the way. was more subtle, than violence^

He brooded over all the. murders he had ever read of, and the ways they had done their victims to death. He became almost an epicurean in the subject; nothing seemed to fatigue him; it was as if he was supported by some secret source of strength. His eyes twinkled and glowed with the light of purpose, and oddly, as day succeeded day, bringing him hourly nearer to the bad country off the usual route, he, became jocular and talkative again. Kent frankly began to think he was a bit what he called '' dippy," or else he was having a spell of nerves; men did in the back country sometimes, where for months at a time they did not see anyone, or have had a long strain of anxiety and no one to act as safetyvalve.

For part he was heartily sick of the trip, and in spite of Martin's sanguine assurances, he was not at all sure how things would be ahead, and if the water would last out their stages, and the horses could not be. depended upon.It was at the end of that day—a long,: hard stage under a burning sun, with a fiery wind blowing —that Kent went under.; The heat, the long ride, when his headi .was aching madly: and there was nothing: to drink but thick warmish water, had taken their toll; all night he only wanted to die, and in the morning was disappointed that he had not. Martin should have been delighted. It was his chance, .'but somehow he was not. There was no sense of pleasurable revenge in this; he felt an unreasoning grudge against nature and circumstances for taking a hand in his game, he was going to play it with his own hand. Kent begged him to:.go on; he would follow next day if he felt fit, and it was ridiculous anyone waiting; his share of the grub could be left. Martin told him to shut up; he made the swags into as comfortable a bed as he could, and rigged, up a break from the sun with the saddles and blankets. The.time was not ripe. . He was not going, to be cheated of his revenge so easily; his,.own.,vhand must drive home the blow. Meanwhile he fought hard to keep Kent from drinking the bad water,, only.;giving him a sip now and again iwhen he-was choking for it, and in the morning he was able to go on. He was as weak as a kitten, and once or twice Martin had to help him off his horse to lie down for a little before he could go on again. It was long after dark when they . camped that night; there was no chance of getting to w r ater, the houses, had their mouths washed out, and-a few drops; of.vwater each. The rest the men had to-keep in ease they did not strike a Government tank some time that afternoon. > The next day, Kent's second horse, dead knocked up, fell, and wrenched.his sinews badly in struggling to .get .up,and was only able to hobble along painfully, at a snail's, crawl. Kent cursed his luck, discarded all the pack he dared, and shifted the saddle on to his other horse. ;

"He may get into water," he nodded at the horse. "He's cleverer than most men, and will scent it. It's a chance,anyhow. He's useless to me now; we can't wait. I'll depend on Mick." ''You can give-him a spell now and again* and have ; Peter,'' Martin 'said, and rocked with laughter. "Kent, who was thoroughly out of tune'with everything, was in too great a rage to speak. It was no use having a row, and Martin had been decent, but he would like to know what the. devil he was laughing at? Later in the day he noticed he was swallowing quinine tabloids. "Feeling off?" he asked, curtly.

Martin nodded. It was his turn.. His head was aching as if a band were being screwed tightly into the bones of his head, and his throat had swollen up and made swallowing an agony. He tried to hide his plight from Kent. "I'm in for a touch of dengue," he thought,, but it would pass off in a day probably, and then he must not wait any longer. In. a way it would be a good thing, for he could say Kent had had it first and died, and that he had only pulled through by the greatest luck and superhuman endurance. Ah, she would weep more when she heard that, but she would forget in time, and he would see that no one else ever came to the house, he would keep her to himself—that was the;'only way to, claim a woman's love. It was novelty with them, that's what it was. . .. -

i ; He said.nothing to; Kent. :-Moody and silent he sat all through the scanty evening tucker, throwing away the food he could not swallow when Kent was not looking, but he drank his share of the tea, and most of Kent's, too. There was no hiding anything in the morning, for Kent woke to" hear him talking in a hoarse whisper in the full tide of delirium.

Like many big, physically strong men, Kent had unreasoning dread of sickness, and his ignorance wa3 as that of a child. He supposed it was a stiff touch of dengue; he knew people often were delirious if there was much fever. The question was what was to be done? The way the water was going he dared not wait; it had become a neck to neek march for life now. All the hot hours of the day he waited beside Martin, who raved incessantly of how he was going to kill him, Kent. Poor old chap, he was very, very bad —odd what ridiculous fancies people got into their heads at such times-—he was afraid he had worried him a bit when he had gone under a,way back. It was rotten luck anyhow! . - ~;

In the cooler hours of the late afternoon he deci,de,d. they dared wait no longer. There was some sort of a moon now; he would be able to steer for the claypans country. He somehow managed to lift Martin to the saddle. Fortunately he was not , a big man, and holding him ', up they slowly progressed fvlpng, ; the spare horse bringing up the melancholy pro- ■ cession. Martin was at the drowsy stage now, and;it required the greatest watchfulness and all Kent's strength to keep him in the saddle at all. All his life long he remembered that' night riding along with a man he felt might die at any. moment, and yet ho dared not camp.. ; Hours went by, hows tjiat seemed an eternity, and all Kent's

I muscles ached, and burnt as if they were hot, with the strain of leaning over, watching the man who was sway-, ing with, torpor and weakness. Ho j never kifew how long rt, took him to reach camp that night. He dug down , and found a little water, tasting clayish, but still water. Somehow Martin to eat a little flour, sugar, and water made into a kind of paste; it was a deadly enough diet for a sick man, but the best he could do. He seemed quieter and presently fell .asleep, listening. It seemed to Kent a regular' sleep, different from the drowsy state he had been in all day, ami, reassured, he stretched his aching limbs out and slept as sleep the dead. Itt/was just before dawn when he awoke. The east was red .as blood with the sullen beauty of the coining dav, like a vast sea the black level stretch of country leaned away on all sides, something tragic and splendid in the silence and majesty of the bigness of it in that hour. Kent nibbed his sleepweighted eyes and sat up. - Then his heart gave a bound, for there was no one.beside him, and the horses were gone!

As soon as it was light he followed the tracks. One water bag was on -the •ground. He filled that, and set off as ■quickly as he could on the tracks. Now he blamed himself bitterly for having gone to sleep, but, good God, who would imagine that a sick man would have the strength—or the sense—to saddle a horse and get away? Of course the paekhorse would follow; but how the deuce did he manage it at all? As he toiled along, over and over again he reiterated these self questions. He had read of delirious people having lucid intervals and performing wonderful feats of strength; but then, if Martin had been all right he would not have left him—that' theory would not do. He began to wonder if the horses wouid make off in search of water themselves, and lose the trail, and if he would ever catch them up, if Martin would suddenly come to his senses miles on and forget all about him, think he had gone on ahead as he might do if he had forgotten about; "Brownie's ' accident and, now he came to think of it—he had not been himself when that happened.. Hour after hour these questions reiterated ceaselessly in his brain as he plodded on in the heat. He had not had time to eat anything, and was beginning to feel exhaustedjwliilephis eyes and brain ached, with the effect of concentration. Every now arid then he would take a sip of the precious water and then on again. Nothing was in sight—was he to perish there alone in the hellish place? God, where was Martin, what had become. o&- him? Surely he must come on them soon — he could not follow on much longer. Again he watched the glowing ruby of the sun sink in a sea of gold, the;la|<d bathed in rose and streaked with fire, and he was alone!. Dead beat, he flung himseffSnown on the sand; he must -wait until morning, if he went on he might get off the tracks and never find them, again. He had a few beef tabloids in his pocket, he remembered the boss of the store had given them-l-to himas a sample, and he had,!laughed .arid said,,they, were all right for an amateur. ,at the .gamenow lie ate .them greedily. The wind caine along from''lnland, hot and dustburdened,' and wailed up over the great spaeesl TKer# was something sinister in the silence; for once Kent felt he hated the land too. He remembered how Martin's wife had said there seemed something cruel in it—what would it bring her,' this land, and how was Martin? Probably the poor beggar was as baddy off as he was, but he had the horses. Peter would iakehiin.to water, he kneyv the track, none fetter,. And tlian sleep' came;" Dawn found him awake for the. light to folltiw on again. There was very little water in the bag liow; if he did riot catch lip the horses he was donehe could never make the long stage, never! , Then he dragged his aching body up and .followed the faint tracks on. The wind had covered them in many places with a Coating of "sand, and he, had to brush it away sometimes very carefully to see if he were still going right. '"] .'..,... ''. The inarch was an" agony now, for the Tbushman does hot walk when,,he can help it, and Kent's feet .were causing hiin pain at' every , step. , The., sun flamed down .froni the.. eloiidless. 'sk,v> the bag was dry, and' he had very -little hope now; but the old .dogged'instinct Of fighting for. Ijife kej>t, him podding on —he knew, the horrors of death from thirst.' God,', knew it. only too well— And then^—when he felt he could not fight on much longer he saw something dark ahead,.. far, far over the. level plain—it was a horse! It always remained one of the unexplained mysteries of Kent's life, how Martin, in the grip .of. delirium, had managed to get so far. "It must havebeen his heart did for him, poor old chap," he would say. "He was holding Peter's reins when I got there, lying, just as he M fallen out of the saddle, and he was never conscious again—went out that night. It beats me how he got there, off his nut as he was; because if he hadn't been hatty he'<l never haye cleared out and left me? He'd fixed me; up when I was bad way back,: and, besides, *we were mates. '.'■ — B. Cecil Doyle,.in the